Day Before Night
by Charis77
Summary: Who were our intrepid Secret Service heroes before we knew them? What experiences and influences shaped them to be the men we know and love? Explore the backgrounds of the famous Secret Service duo, James West and Artemus Gordon, beginning with their youth and leading up to Grant's presidency.
1. Prologue: James

1853

Garbled shouts and thunderous hammering alerted Father Thomas the fight had moved indoors. He'd just begun to stand, but resettled when the headmistress' shrill screech sounded above the cacophony. She censured for a good time, using every name in the book not deemed untoward for a holy institution. Sudden silence, then stomping down the hall. Father Thomas sighed as his door was flung open.

"He's done it again, Father, and heaven help us if you don't kill him this time!"

Father Thomas restrained the laugh begging to be let loose as he beheld the red-faced woman and her disheveled bun. Rather heaven help the boys who incurred her wrath!

Father Thomas nodded demurely. "I'll deal with him."

The headmistress sniffed and closed the door a bit too hard on her way out.

Father Thomas assessed the boy who'd been dumped into his office. No vest, the shirt torn in two places and smudged all over. Pants wrinkled, lacking sufficient care. Expression emotionless.

Father Thomas met the boy's steely eyes, but as always he stared straight ahead, at attention with his hands behind his back. Father Thomas' eyes traveled to the rod propped up in the corner of his office. How many times had the boy been in here? How many times had he been chastised in word or body? Too many to count offhand.

Father Thomas drummed his fingers on the worn leather Bible on his desk as he was wont to do when troubled. Certainly he could thrash the boy again, as was his habit with chronic offenders. Usually it took not more than once for a boy to avoid his office, but this boy...He'd come here angry and he'd stayed angry.

Father Thomas stared at the faded gilded title embossed on the reverent tome and recited internally: _"Folly is bound up in the heart of a child, and the rod of correction shall drive it away."_ Father Thomas' eyes flicked to the boy again as he stilled his palm on the Bible. He'd never actually seen the boy fight until today. A scuffle had drawn his attention outside his window and he turned in time to observe the bulk of the fracas. The boy may be sporting cuts and the beginnings of bruises, but he'd certainly held his own, and against a much larger foe.

Father Thomas rubbed a finger over the indentation of the title. The rod of correction certainly had its place, but hadn't the blessed Savior demonstrated patience and ingenuity while disciplining the twelve under his care? Time and again he corrected them and they became his loyal witnesses.

Father Thomas stood. "Come." He walked to the door and opened it.

The boy turned, his eyes narrowed warily. "Where?"

"Follow me." Father Thomas left the office and the boy dutifully caught up to him, pacing by his side. A few curious glances trailed them as they passed down the hall and out the front door. It was near noon, but several people still wandered the streets. Father Thomas halted in front of a livery stable.

"You don't want them to hear me?"

Father Thomas looked down at the boy. "Hear you?"

"You gonna horsewhip me? Don't want them to hear me scream?"

Father Thomas was taken aback. "No, boy, of course not. Wait here."

Father Thomas entered the stables. "Joe?"

"Over here!"

Father Thomas paced to the end of a row of stalls and looked in on a man bent double with horse's foot propped between his legs. "Hurt?"

"New shoes. What do you need?"

"Do you remember old Jabin? Father's tutor?"

Joe snorted. "How could I forget? I still got the scars."

"Is he still in town?"

"As far as I know. Over in the east district. He's got a school now, like you." A slight chuckle followed the last statement and Father Thomas smiled. Joe had never seen eye to eye with him about his professional choices.

Father Thomas headed back to the door. "Take care, Joe."

"You, too...Father," came the good-natured voice in the last stall.

Father Thomas was glad to see the boy had waited as ordered. He'd half expected him to take off after his assumption. The boy did glance at his right hand, but relaxed visibly when he saw it was empty. "Come," he said again. The boy paced next to him as before.

Father Thomas glanced down at the boy's tousled brown head, remembering when Sister Clare had appeared, making the boy wait in the hall while she discussed his case in the office. He'd seen how frazzled she was right away. Normally she had the patience of Job. She'd explained the boy's mother had abandoned her family some time back. The boy's father had come to hard times financially and with no way to support the boy had handed her his last savings even as she protested, leaving the boy in her care. He'd been at the orphanage only three months, but she practically begged Father Thomas to take him on, albeit couched in terms of the boy's need of a male in his life he could look up to. As it was, Father Thomas had only opened the school the year prior after the First Plenary Council of Baltimore had called for every parish in the country to set its sights on education. His may not have been the large city school they'd imagined, but he'd heeded the call in his own way, purchased a disused home, and begun a small boys' school. He'd needed students, and so took on the boy with the provision of the money he left behind. The boy could stay a few months before it ran out.

Father Thomas smiled ruefully and turned his eyes back to the road. The boy was intelligent. He may not have been vocal, but the results of his study were far above his peers. But study hadn't been enough to sate his anger; he loved his mouth and fists more. Father Thomas had thought the lad would easily change under his care and had felt perhaps a bit affronted the boy hadn't seen the kindness of his willing mentor and fallen in line.

Father Thomas nodded to himself. This boy would not change by being talked to. He was like Joe. Someone else could reach him. He needed to control his body before his mind would be open enough to deal with the pain in his soul.

Father Thomas saw the sign before the building, a large swirling red dragon. "Here," he said when they reached the porch. The boy gazed upwards at the sign. Father Thomas opened the door and stood aside. The boy walked tentatively forward and stepped through.

Father Thomas followed, taking in the exotic decoration and oriental influence. The boy looked around, eyes sharp and wide. A slight woman with almond eyes greeted them. "Welcome. May I help you?"

"I wish to speak to Jabin."

"Mr. Jabin is in a class."

"May we see?"

The women glanced curiously at the boy, but nodded. She led them to a small room, let them enter, then shut the door. The end of the room contained a glassless window and guttural cries issued from it. The boy walked to the window, instantly interested. Father Thomas followed him.

Several men stood with their backs to the walls of the larger room they gazed on. Two combatants challenged each other in the middle. Father Thomas named the stances, each familiar to him. As one combatant flipped the other, Father Thomas grinned at the boy's sharp intake of breath. He was mesmerized. When one finally became victor, pinning the other, they bowed to each other and separated. The victor nodded heartily. "Good. Good. That's all for today." The men filed out of the room; the victor stayed.

Father Thomas put his hand on the boy's shoulder and directed him to a door next to the window. They passed into the large room and the victor, an imposing man with dark hair, looked up at them. He cocked his head. "Yes?"

Father Thomas smiled. "Charles O'Grady."

The victor's eyes widened and he strode to Father Thomas, clapping his shoulder. "Little Charlie?"

Father Thomas nodded.

"Look at you! What is this getup?" The victor looked the father's dark robes up and down.

Father Thomas laughed. "My profession."

The victor shook his head. "Would never have expected it out of you."

Father Thomas shrugged his shoulders. This wasn't the time to tell his own story. He gestured to the boy. "I have a school and I think I might have a student for you."

The victor looked down on the boy and the boy seemed suddenly intimidated. "I don't teach many boys now."

"I can pay you."

The victor waved his hand dismissively. "If I accepted it, I might be damned." The victor leaned over to look in the boy's eyes. "What's your name?"

The boy swallowed, but met the gaze. "James...West."

"I'm Jabin." The victor held out his hand and the boy took it. Jabin shook his hand firmly, then let go and indicated to the middle of the room. "Fight me."

The boy looked alarmingly to Father Thomas. Father Thomas nodded his head towards Jabin. Flames sprang up in the boy's eyes. Father Thomas could guess he thought he'd been brought here to be pummeled by a professional. He stood tall and squared his shoulders. He stepped to the middle of the room and held his eleven year old fists up, scowling.

Jabin raised his eyebrows at Father Thomas. Father Thomas let the ghost of a smile play on his lips. Jabin stepped up to the boy, dwarfing his figure. He waited, but the boy did nothing, so he jabbed towards his head. The boy blocked the move and punched outward. Jabin easily caught the punch in his palm, but nodded approvingly. Jabin continued to punch and move across the room. The boy kept up with him and once or twice almost grazed him. Jabin moved faster, made his punches harder, still the boy kept with him. Then he spoke.

"You're angry. Anger won't help you win if it's not focused."

"I'm _not_ angry," the boy growled.

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You are if I say you are."

"I'm not!" The boy lost it then, punching with abandon. Jabin met each blow and the boy didn't block like he had been. Jabin cuffed his shoulder and the boy went down. He groaned and put his hand to his injury. His eyes flashed at Father Thomas. "Just beat me and get it over with!"

Jabin wandered over to Father Thomas. "I see why you want him here," he muttered.

Father Thomas nodded. "Will you take him?"

Jabin glanced at the boy seething on the floor. "I will. How many times a week?"

"All the time."

Jabin raised his eyebrows a second time. "His studies?"

"Send him to the school during the day. Let him live here. And I _will_ pay you."

Jabin's voice lowered further. "Laura died last year."

"I'm sorry."

"We never had children. Maybe he'll fill in. Is he an orphan?"

"Abandoned. I can't guarantee we won't see his father again."

Jabin nodded thoughtfully. "Then we'll do what we can until he returns. And you _won't_ pay me." Father Thomas opened his mouth, but Jabin went on. "You can't tell me a priest makes enough to hand out his students to private tutors."

Jabin strode over to the boy. "On your feet, James West."

The boy stood, defiantly facing the Martial Arts instructor.

"Welcome to your new home."

The boy snapped his head to Father Thomas. "You're leaving me here?"

"You'll come to school, but Mr. Jabin is your caretaker now."

"I don't want to stay here."

"You don't get a choice."

"I'm not staying."

Father Thomas walked up to the boy and stared sternly down at him. "If you're a coward, return with me."

The boy's eyes lit up. "I'm not a coward!"

"You are if one slap on the shoulder makes you afraid to stay here."

"I'm not afraid."

"Then prove it. Stay here and let this man teach you."

The boy looked between the priest and the instructor. "Teach me?"

Father Thomas let slip the hint of smile. "Yes, boy. I didn't bring you here for him to beat you. And if you're brave enough, you'll stay behind when I walk out the door." Father Thomas turned and walked away, out of the large room, into the hall, and down the front steps. He strode through the street for several yards, then paused to look back. The boy was nowhere to be seen.


	2. Prologue: Artemus

1853

Maude Bell surreptitiously adjusted her corset, covering her motion with her pink parasol. Confound the blasted heat this time of year! She brought the parasol back up, shading herself once more, and squinted at the stage. The orator was still droning on and on. Most of the graduates were managing to feign interest except one. She hoped no one else saw him mimicking, his mouth gaping open and shut like a fish. She sent daggers at the young man with the slick dark hair. Their eyes met and he stopped his impression, but not without a mischievous wink in her direction.

"Aretmus Gordon, I should give you an earful," Maude grumbled under her breath.

Finally, the orator hushed and polite applause followed his walk off the platform. The president of the university stood and began to call the names of the graduates. Maude clasped a hand to her throat and waited, chest swollen with pride. Artemus walked to the president, shaking his hand as he received his degree. Artemus looked to her as he lined up with the graduates, grinning with all his teeth.

"Grandson?" the man next to Maude asked.

Maude snorted. "Great-Nephew. It's his _third_ degree."

"Oh, professional scholar, eh?"

"Something like that," Maude returned.

Artemus waved from his waist. Maude unclasped her hand and waved back, hand pulled close against her chest. She sighed as she lowered it. Third degree. Now he was supposed to leave her. Ten years with him hadn't been nearly enough...

* * *

1843

"I hardly know the young man, and he's coming here...to live!"

"Why didn't you tell them to send him somewhere else?" Ida queried as she dropped two lumps of sugar into her tea.

"Well, I always did have a special place in my heart for my nephew, even if he was the black sheep," Maude explained, taking a sip out of her blue China bone cup.

"I heard the tales," Ida tittered.

"Yes, well, not all of them were true."

"Of course not," Ida agreed, though Maude didn't believe she believed that for a moment. Gossips. Give them an inch and they created a mile.

"Anyway, what was I supposed to do? I'm his closest living relative."

"But Maude, you're almost fifty!"

Maude scrunched up her nose. "And what does that mean? I have one foot in the grave?"

"Well, no, but to take in a youth at your age..."

Maude harrumphed. "It'll make me younger."

"He'll need guidance, supervision..."

"I raised my own, I can certainly give him that."

"I suppose." Ida continued to primly drink her tea and avoid Maude's suddenly cold gaze.

When Maude said good-bye to Ida on her doorstep, she waited until the severely thin woman had disappeared down the lane, then slipped outside to sit a moment on the veranda. The sun was near setting and she couldn't help but bask in the memory of sitting wrapped in Albert's arms so many years ago. She missed him most days even still.

Maude took a long breath as her great nephew intruded on her thoughts. Truth was, she hadn't had much of a relationship with her older sister. Maude had been too wild, so they said, traipsing here and there on exotic travels. She'd met Albert that way and luckily he was a man of wealth and position, easily approved by her family. She'd returned home and lived the life they expected, loving Albert and raising their children. She'd seen her sister a bit more then, but she was still severely aristocratic, surrounded by impenetrable barriers. How her sister ever got married Maude could never figure out!

Maude chuckled to herself. It's a wonder she even managed to have a child! She must have been the coldest thing in bed...Maude checked herself. She shouldn't think like that, especially of the dead. Well, have a child they did, a son they pinned all their hopes on and he defied them all. Her sister had been devastated the day she'd found a letter left by her son declaring he'd eloped and joined an acting troupe. Maude had secretly celebrated her nephew's freedom.

Maude picked at a wicker end coming loose on her rocker. And now he was dead, along with his wife. A fire, she'd been told, in an old building that had been turned into a makeshift theater. They'd been practicing and somehow been stuck in the blaze. But their son had been safely in a hotel down the street and now he was coming here.

Maude gazed out at the sunset. She might be older, but she longed for the noise of youth again. Maybe this great nephew would be a godsend after all.

* * *

When the carriage pulled up to the front of her vast lawn, Maude was waiting on its edge. She directed her manservant to take the luggage to the room she'd had prepared and sized up her new charge as he disembarked. He was almost the spitting image of her nephew, except for the dark hair. That belonged to his mother. He was broad shouldered even at thirteen, and his eyes seemed to shine with some secret knowledge.

Maude stepped forward. "Artemus? I'm your Great Aunt Maude."

Artemus blinked a couple times, then stepped forward and stretched up to kiss her on both cheeks. Maude's eyes widened and Aretmus looked down at the proffered hand he'd overlooked. "I...should have shook it."

Maude nodded and hid her smile.

"Excuse me. Our last troupe was French."

"Oh," Maude said. Of course. He must have had quite the upbringing being raised in the theater.

" _Je suis heureux de vous recontrer_."

"French." Artemus nodded and Maude smiled. She recalled the sweet French tones. She'd known them once by heart, but lack of use had eroded her skill, although she understood his greeting easily. "Well, come then and I'll show you your room."

Artemus followed obediently behind her.

* * *

Over the next few weeks Maude observed her new charge. He may have been young, but his desire for knowledge was voracious. He'd brought a trunk along with him full of books and almost fainted when he saw Maude's personal library. He spent his time with his face buried in materials and every so often chattering away about his discoveries. He knew several languages, those he'd learned from foreign actors who'd joined troupes and those his mother taught him. Maude found his education had not been neglected. On the contrary, his various experiences formed the foundation of a vibrant education born of life. His father and mother had capitalized on his opportunities.

So exuberant was her great nephew that Maude simply assumed he'd conquered grief. But one day she'd wandered into his room to find him standing at the bay window, gazing on the park across the street. A book laid open on the bed, turned upside down, and she glanced at the title on its cover _Hernani, ou l'Honneur Castillan_. She didn't recognize it and turned it over. "Ah! A play!" she exclaimed.

"Yes," Artemus said. His voice was so very quiet and he hadn't turned from the window. Maude glanced over at the youth and saw with a start he rubbed at his cheek. "The one they were practicing when..."

Artemus turned away from the window to rush from the room, but Maude caught his arm. "Come now," she coaxed and drew him to the bed. She wrapped her arms around him and the youth was suddenly crying like a small child. After a time, his sobs subsided and he extricated himself from her grasp. He sat with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.

"It's foolish," Artemus mumbled. "Death is natural."

Maude put a hand on his back. "You look at me, Aretmus Gordon." The youth met her eyes. "Crying isn't foolish. Not when it's about something like this. You've got to let it out sometimes to go on, you hear me?"

Aretmus drew in a shaky breath. "I'm never going to see them again."

Maude gently pulled him to a sitting position and cupped his face in her hands. "No you aren't, not this side of heaven. But you've got me and I've got you and I'm not letting you go."

Artemus fell into her arms again, enfolding her in a great big bear hug and Maude felt she'd found a kindred spirit once more...

* * *

1853

"Aunt Maude, you know Lil."

Maude nodded to the girl Artemus had thrust in front of her. "I've seen her."

"Hello," the girl greeted.

Artemus beamed at the girl. Maude wondered if marriage was in the cards, but another young man appeared. "Hey, Lily! Time to go. We don't want to miss the luncheon." He gave Artemus a look of triumph.

Lily hugged Artemus briefly then pranced away on the arm of the gentleman. Artemus' face clouded over. Maude touched his arm. "You know I've filled home with a dozen beauties just waiting to hang on your arm."

Aretmus grinned with half his mouth and took Maude's arm to escort her to their carriage. Once they were on their way, Maude let out a breath. "Well, tomorrow your future. Are you packed and ready?"

Artemus smiled. "I see. You want me out right after we celebrate."

Maude shook her head. "Of course I don't, but your train leaves so early. And don't forget I'm coming to visit within the month. I haven't been back to Boston in years. You'll love it there and with your rising mind you'll have the pick of the town. Your father used to love..."

"Aunt Maude?"

Maude broke off and glanced at her great nephew. "Yes?"

Artemus ran a hand through his hair and Maude creased her brow. He only did that when he had to say something uncomfortable. "Aunt Maude, you know I'm grateful. All the money you spent on colleges, universities, financing my degrees." He was speaking to the floor of the carriage.

"Don't butter me up, Artemus."

Artemus laughed nervously and looked up at her. "I just want you to know how grateful I am."

"And?"

Aretmus swallowed. "I'm not going to Boston."

Maude sat up straight. "Heavens, why not? You've got a job waiting, a profession to begin, not to mention journals to publish." On top of the ones he'd already published. With his intellect, he could start his own journal. She'd never seen someone with so much potential. "It's that Lily Fortune!" Maude suddenly shouted. "You're eloping, like your father."

Artemus looked startled. "What? No." He laughed. "No."

"Well, what then?"

Artemus ran a hand through his dark hair again and then fixed her with his brown eyes. "Funny you should mention me doing something like my father...I've joined a theater troupe heading to Chicago."

Maude stared. She hadn't been speechless in a long time and as the moments ticked by, Artemus grew more uncomfortable and finally spoke again.

"Chemistry, mechanics, electricity, all of it, it's great, but...to be stuck in a lab or at a desk..."

"You love the discovery," Maude managed.

Artemus nodded. "Yes, but it's not...well, it's not...exciting enough. Anything I'd produce would be owned."

"You can start your own company. I'll provide the capital."

Aretmus shook his head. "I don't want you to spend any more on me."

"I want to."

"The point is, I want to do something on my own, something...free."

Maude meant to speak on, lecturing on the security of his future, throwing away his skills, but her sister's voice echoed in her head, lamenting all the failings of her genius son thrown away on drama. Maude closed her mouth and considered her great nephew. His brown eyes pleaded with her to understand. He'd been in several amateur plays, and she knew he excelled also at that. He made people laugh and cry. No doubt, he'd succeed.

"What are you going to do with your other skills?"

Aretmus sat back in his seat, relaxing now he had her approval. "I'll keep up with them. Submit to journals."

Maude harrumphed. "I guess every man should have a hobby."

Aretmus chuckled and sighed. "You've been too good to me."

Maude looked down her nose at him. "Not good enough if you're throwing away three perfectly good degrees."

Aretmus smiled, knowing her statement was mostly in jest.

"Do you want to be near them?" Maude asked as the carriage pulled up to her door and she heard the twittering of the friends that had gathered to celebrate Aretmus' graduation.

Aretmus paused with his hand on the door handle. He looked down a moment, then back at her. "I never thought about it, but probably. I think I can't help it. The stage is in my blood."

He opened the door and let Maude exit first, then marched up the steps to the waiting crowd. Maude watched him go, absentmindedly swinging her parasol. What would become of her great nephew? Whatever happened, the world better hang on. Artemus Gordon was about to be unfettered.


	3. 1858: James

1858

"Shhhhhh!"

"But, is it okay?"

"Of course."

"James, no one's supposed to come in here."

James flashed the wide grin that always made Maria crumble. "That's why we're here."

Maria giggled as James helped her slip through a space between two loosened wooden slats. Maria stared every which way as James pulled her through the boarded up mansion, continuing to grin at her amazement. "I never thought I'd see the inside," she breathed out.

James ran his eye over the opulent decorations. A thin layer of dust covered some of the furniture, but it didn't take away from the effect. He wondered briefly if the house he was born in looked something like this. He directed Maria into the parlor and gently sat her on a settee. The girl kept gazing around the room.

"So beautiful," she murmured.

James flashed another smile at her accent lilting in his ears. He loved the way she talked, her dark eyes, and silky hair. He could imagine her a queen of her domain, ruling the lives of this mansion. He sat down next to her and laid a hand on the back of her neck. Maria looked to him and heat rose in her cheeks. He drew closer and met her lips, savoring their softness. When he pulled back, she giggled again.

"Papi would kill me if he knew I was here."

"He doesn't know," James assured her. "And we won't tell him." He leaned back in and kissed her harder this time. She gripped his shoulders.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?"

Maria cried out and turned. James glared at three men standing in the doorway. He recognized one of them. He slowly stood. "We don't want any trouble."

"Tresspassin', ain't you, boy?" one of the men drawled.

"We only wanted to be alone," Maria explained fearfully. "We'll leave."

The man who'd first spoken, Clyde Rosten as James recalled, laughed and wheezed, joined by his companions. "We was lookin' for some fun...and we found you."

James reached behind him to grasp Maria's arm. He pulled her up and pushed her toward a window. "Go."

"You ain't going nowhere!" Clyde stepped towards the couple and James threw himself into a fighting stance.

Clyde laughed again and looked back at his friends. He turned to James. "You're just a boy, boy. You cain't fight a man."

"You want to bet on that?" James threatened.

Clyde wiped a hand over his drooling mouth. "You think you can come in here with that bean eater and get away with it?"

The name-calling was enough for James. He made the first move, leaping forward with a solid punch to the head. Clyde hadn't been expecting the attack and stumbled back. His companions shook their heads and their bleary eyes cleared for a moment. They moved towards James.

"Get out!" James yelled to Maria, then plunged in, meeting his opponents head on. As he swung and jabbed, keeping the men off balance, he heard Jabin's voice in his head: "Always watch your back; know where each one is at all times." "Keep moving. Make them keep up with you." "When one goes down, go for another."

The men stumbled and swayed and tried to make headway, groaning and moaning as James hit them again and again. James found himself laughing now. That was, until one of Clyde's companions rushed him, pinning him against an old upright piano. The instrument's hammers pinged discordantly as James struggled against the bulk of the man. The other companion came to his friend's aid and James found both his arms in their grip. Clyde stalked towards him.

"Thought you was better than us, eh?" He rubbed at a temple starting to swell. "Well, you ain't got nothin' on us, deviling brat." He raised his fist and James flinched as it connected. Pain exploded on the left side of his face and he felt a trickle on his forehead. He blinked and saw for the first time Clyde wore a heavy ring on his right hand.

"Get 'em in the gut," one of the companions encouraged. James scrabbled to twist around. Clyde grinned and raised his fist again.

"Stop it!" a rough voice shouted across the room.

All eyes focused on the doorway. A man with a long mustache and a tin star pinned to his vest stood with his hands on his hips. Maria cowered behind him, her face contorted in fear.

The sheriff marched over to the piano and shoved the men away from James. "Make you feel like men to attack this boy?" He held James by his arm to keep him from tumbling over.

James wished people would quit calling him a boy. He was fifteen, not a child, but he felt too groggy at the moment to argue.

"He hit first!" Clyde argued, pointing to his swelling temple. "An' he trespassed! Him and that girl." He pointed a finger at Maria.

The sheriff shook his head. "Then you go get the law."

"I got a right to defend this property."

"Maybe so, but he's a kid. He isn't worth a fight." The sheriff pulled on James' arm, directing him to the door. "I'm taking him and I want you to go cool down, you hear me?"

Clyde glowered angrily at his companions, but growled, "I hear you," as the door to the Davis mansion slammed shut.

* * *

James shared a hidden smile with Hui as the sheriff lectured.

"I'm getting tired of pulling you out of scrapes. If Jabin weren't a good friend, I'd throw you in a cell." Sheriff Brady paced back where James could see him. "Maybe I ought to just whip you and get it over with."

James scowled and winced as Hui applied an ointment to his brow. "I wasn't the one who threatened a girl," he protested.

"Come on, James. They called her a name. She's heard worse."

James suddenly stood, causing Hui to back up with the ointment jar in her hand. "No one cares about them, not even you!"

Brady frowned at the youth. "You should take my advice. I'm only trying to save you trouble. Stop going over there. They have their part of town and we have ours and the less they mix the better."

"Perhaps," a new voice added. "Perhaps not." Jabin entered, his face clouded with disapproval. James sighed. One lecture was about to be replaced with another. "I wouldn't have learned all I have if I hadn't crossed boundaries." Jabin nodded to Hui who nodded back.

Brady let out an exasperated breath. "You went to the Orient. You didn't drag the Orient back here."

"Regardless, James has every right to go where he wants, doesn't he?"

"He's free to go wherever he likes, but not to trespass!"

Jabin laughed derisively. "The Davises haven't been back in ten years and you know as well as I do that Clyde Rosten is the worst caretaker there ever was. When he's drunk, he uses that place for his own purposes and when he's sober, he's looking to get drunk."

Brady strode over to Jabin and peered down at him. "It's still trespassing. You tell this boy to mind his own business. Next time I have to rescue him, I won't be listening to excuses." Brady stomped down the hall and out the door.

James sat back down and Hui came back to him, rubbing in more salve.

"Confound it, James!" Jabin exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air and pacing to his charge's side. "Sometimes I think you're still eleven, all fire and fists!"

James looked up at the man he considered a second father, a man he respected more than any other. "I'm not trying to get you in trouble."

"You know I don't care about myself, but you keep on like this and you'll get a reputation you won't be able to put behind you."

" _They_ threatened _us_."

"Then you should have left."

"They wanted a fight."

"You don't have to give it to them."

"They weren't going to leave us alone..."

"You're lucky they only did _this_ to you!"

Jabin indicated his wound and James read the worry in the older man's eyes. He swallowed his protest. "I'm sorry."

Jabin shook his head and put a hand on James' back. "You want to see justice done. I understand. But you can't always do it with your fists."

James nodded, but he wasn't quite sure he agreed. Fists seemed to accomplish quite a lot.

"I want you to keep away from the mansion. And Maria..."

James' eyes flashed. "I'm not going to leave her."

Jabin raised his eyebrows. "And Maria," he continued, "be careful who sees you with her. There's no sense inviting trouble, is there?"

James shrugged.

Jabin slowly walked over to a side table. Hui ran a tender hand over James' forehead and whispered conspiratorially. "Listen to him. He only wants the best for you."

James smiled at the Asian woman. She pulled away and left the room with the ointment jar.

Jabin lifted an envelope from the table and turned back to the youth. "Something came for you from Father Thomas."

Jabin handed the envelope to James who gazed curiously on the crisp white paper. He saw Father Thomas almost every day. What was so important he'd send a letter mid-week? He peeled back the seal, unfolded the letter, and read.

 _James, I must meet with you. Come to the school at 4:00. Father Thomas._

James mused. Father Thomas was unfortunately always conservative in his words. He looked up at Jabin and was startled to see a bit of sorrow. "Do you know what this is about?" he asked, waving the letter in his hand.

"Go see him," Jabin said, starting to leave.

"He wants me to take that entrance test."

Jabin looked back. "Then take it."

James folded his arms over his chest. "What good is college? I might as well get on with life."

Jabin smiled knowingly. "You don't believe that."

James stood. "It doesn't matter if I believe it," he muttered. "I don't have the money for it."

Jabin left the room, speaking as he went. "Just go see the Father."

James looked back down at the letter written in the flowing penmanship of the stubborn priest. He didn't want to argue about college again. Every time he did it just reminded him that he couldn't go even if he wanted to.

* * *

James ambled up to the school, pausing at its steps. He'd been going through the old arguments in his head. Father Thomas would insist he take his money to finance college. He'd refuse—again. The priest was next to penniless. He spent all he had on others and James wasn't about to drain him further, not after all he'd done for him. He'd tell Father Thomas this was the last time he'd discuss it.

James climbed the steps heavily, opened the door and passed by a few students still meandering in the hall after their last class. When he reached Father Thomas' door he took a moment to prepare himself. He hated arguing with the priest. He tapped on the door.

"Come in!" Father Thomas' perpetually calm voice called out.

James drew in a breath and turned the knob, determined to get what he wanted to say out first. "Father, I'm not going to take the entrance..." He halted both his speech and his steps. Father Thomas stood behind his desk and gestured to a chair, but not the lone one usually in front of the desk. A second had been pulled over, the first being occupied by a man James knew well even from the back.

James didn't move and the man turned to face him. James took in the blue eyes, the familiar gaze, the light brown hair that echoed his own. "James..."

"Why are you here?" James spat out.

"James, come sit," Father Thomas implored.

James didn't take his eyes off his father, his real father, in the flesh, looking at him as if he didn't know him anymore. And he didn't. He hadn't for years. "What do you want?" James asked.

John West blinked a couple times. "I want to take you home."

James suddenly laughed. "Home? _This_ is my home."

Father Thomas began walking towards the youth. "Please sit. We can talk about this."

James looked at the priest. "He thinks he can just show up now? I'm not going with him."

Father Thomas put his hands on James' shoulders. "I should have warned you in my letter. It's my fault. Take some time. Sit down and think."

James shook off the priest's grasp. "I don't need to think. I'm not going anywhere with him."

"He's your father."

"I don't care!"

John stood, fumbling with a hat in his hands. "I shouldn't have come like this."

Father Thomas turned. "No. Stay."

"Just go," James challenged. Father Thomas scowled at him.

John walked to the door, but tarried in the entrance. "I'm staying at the Magnolia." James didn't turn around as his father's light steps tapped down the hall and out the door.

Father Thomas let out a breath and moved back to his desk, sliding down heavily behind it. "Will you sit now?"

James' furrowed brow deepened. "If I do will you just tell me to go with him?"

Father Thomas sent James a withering gaze. The youth stamped over to the chair and perched on its edge ready to flee at a moment's notice. "What happened?" Father Thomas asked, indicating the cut on James' forehead.

"Nothing," James replied. He didn't need a third lecture today.

Father Thomas let the wound go in light of more pressing matters at hand. "He cares about you."

James shook his head, but didn't reply.

"He came back because he can support you again. He's got money and a good job."

 _And what if he runs out again?_ James wondered. Where would his father drop him off the next time?

Father Thomas' gaze became steel. "This is your opportunity, James. I told him about your progress, your intelligence, your chances. He's ready to pay for college, room and board, too. He's proud of you."

James ground his jaw. How could he be proud? He hadn't been around to witness any of it.

Father Thomas pushed back in his seat. "My father treated both his sons as a burden."

James stared curiously at the priest. Father Thomas had never spoken of his own personal history as long as he'd known him.

"He tried to mold us into the shape he wanted. When we failed, he disowned each of us." Father Thomas leaned across the desk. "Your father wants to do what he can for you. He wants to take you on your own terms. Give him a chance. Get to know him again. Don't give up what he's offering you."

James suddenly stood and bolted to the door. The office had become too stuffy and closed. He rushed down the hall, out the door, and down the steps, not sure where he was headed or why.

* * *

A breezy evening ruffled James' hair as he confronted the overgrown brush of the Davis estate. It used to be meticulously manicured, they said. He'd found it a great place for exploration when he was younger. The mansion manned a small rise in the distance. James tilted his head. He wouldn't be trespassing into the mansion, just walking the grounds, and Clyde Rosten never meandered around those.

James kicked at the underbrush as he forged ahead. He'd wandered the town for a time, but ended up here. This had always been his escape. He stopped at a familiar tree, running his hand over the bark, then jumped to grasp a low hanging branch and climbed up to a crook where he could sit comfortably. He fiddled with a couple leaves pulled from a twig. As he did so, he glanced at his wrist. He'd broken it the year before he'd ended up in Father Thomas' care.

James had tried not to let his father intrude in his thoughts, but memory was too strong. They'd been up to see his uncle, the one he was named after. They didn't get up there often, especially after his mother left. He hardly remembered her, but her brother invited them anyway.

James twirled one of the leaves with his left hand. It had healed well, no lasting damage. He'd been outside sledding and careened into a tree. He recalled the sharp pain shooting through his arm, his screams. His father had rushed to his aid and he'd been bundled up and carted to a doctor.

James dropped the leaves and watched them spin through the air to the ground. If he hadn't broken his wrist, his father might never have told him how bad off they were. He'd caught his father's embarrassment when the doctor mentioned payment. There'd been some arguing between his father and uncle and then his uncle paid the fee. Half a year later and James had been abandoned in a nun's orphanage. _"I'll come back for you,"_ his father had said. He hadn't said it would be four years later.

James raised his fist, wanting to punch at the trunk. He glowered angrily. _And break my wrist again._ He lowered his hand.

"James!" an eager, lilting voice called.

James glanced below at Maria's dark, silky head.

"I knew you'd come back here," the girl grinned. She hoisted herself up on a branch and James reached down to give her a hand up. She slid next to him, nestling into his side. He wrapped his arm around her. "Hui said you weren't home. I figured you'd break the rules again."

James felt a little affronted. He'd always respected Jabin and wouldn't disobey him. "I'm not in the mansion," he clarified grumpily.

"No, we're not," Maria acknowledged, her voice quiet. James swung his feet back and forth, trying to get his father out of his head. There was silence for a time, then Maria sat up and banished it. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," James muttered, avoiding her gaze.

"You're never this quiet," Maria stated. "Not around girls."

James sighed and looked at her. He'd known her almost a year. They'd meet in the streets, him throwing himself into it again, pulling her out of the way of a renegade horse. They'd been fast friends and then, maybe something more if he'd been allowed to admit it. "My father came back."

Maria's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Your father? I thought he was dead."

James shook his head.

Maria's eyes lowered. "You're leaving, then."

James let out a long breath. "No. I'm not going anywhere with him."

Maria looked up. "Why?"

"Why should I?" James snapped back.

"He's your father." Just what Father Thomas had said. Maria had a large and close family. James couldn't imagine her ever leaving them.

"He wouldn't even take me home," James argued. "He'd pay for college, so I'd go there." His father would ship him off the minute he got him.

"College?" Maria queried in a hushed voice.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," James grumbled. He reached out and drew her back into his side if only to shut her up. Blessed silence reigned again, but only for a few minutes.

"You should go," Maria whispered. James ignored her. Maria's roughened hand ran along his cheek. "I'll never get the chances you get."

James glanced down at the girl staring up at him with gorgeous brown eyes. He swallowed hard. He was wasting a perfectly good opportunity, wasn't he?

"There you are."

James and Maria looked down to see Jabin standing at the base of the tree.

"I thought I told you not to come here anymore."

The youths spoke at the same time. "He's not in the mansion." "I didn't go in the house."

"Get down here," Jabin demanded.

James followed Maria down to the ground.

"You, go home," Jabin told the girl. "It's late." Maria gave James one last forlorn look and departed. Jabin turned his attention to his charge. "You, sit down."

James lowered himself to the ground, back against the tree, hands on his knees. Jabin slid down next to him. "You saw your father."

James stared at him. "You knew he was here."

Jabin nodded.

"And you didn't tell me." James looked away.

"I didn't know how to tell you," Jabin explained. "Father Thomas said you took off, wouldn't even talk to your father."

"You're my father," James mumbled.

Jabin snorted. "No, I'm not. I'm just a guardian."

James looked up, the sting of betrayal in his eyes.

Jabin sighed. "I took you in, yes, and I've tried to do what I could for you, but I always knew your father could come back. I wanted him to."

James' eyes grew wider.

"It wasn't that I didn't want you. It's that a boy should know his father if he can. And your father, as far as I can tell, cares about you quite a lot."

James firmed his jaw again. He wished they'd stop telling him how much his father loved him. A loving father didn't dump his kid when he wanted to.

Jabin's eyes took on that knowing look again. "He left you _because_ he cared about you. He knew you'd starve with him. He might even have had to put you to work somewhere." James opened his mouth to respond, but Jabin held up his hand. "I know. You would have done it. You'd have done anything he asked just to stay with him."

James closed his mouth. He wasn't going to say it that way, but that was the essence of it.

"The point is he came back. He worked hard and long and when he was able came back to get you. He wouldn't have come back if he didn't care."

James tapped a finger on his knee. Jabin had a point.

"He's offering you himself and college. What more do you want?"

James considered. What more did he want? He knew the answer, but he'd spent most of his time these days hiding his emotions. Jabin stared at him and then smiled. He was glad Jabin could read him without words.

"Father Thomas and I will do just fine. We want you to go to college. Use your intelligence. Learn what you can. Who knows? Maybe you'll be the sheriff one day and you can knock some heads together for justice."

James couldn't help but crack a smile.

"Just promise me you'll take Father Thomas' compassion with you. You don't have to fight _everyone_."

James let out a soft breath. "I will."

Jabin stood and reached down. James took his hand, letting his foster father pull him to his feet. He clapped James on the shoulder. "You'll make us all proud."

* * *

James lingered nervously outside his father's hotel room, shifting from foot to foot. He tucked in his shirt tails that had come loose in his tree climb. A couple twittering ladies passed in the hall. James watched them walk by and into a nearby room. He coughed quietly, his mouth dry. He laid a knuckle on the door and knocked before he changed his mind.

"Yes?"

"It's James."

Quick steps sounded and the door opened wide. James and his father locked eyes for a couple moments, then John stood aside. "Come in."

James walked into the room, glancing around. His father may have earned money, but he chose meager accommodations.

"You want to sit?"

James turned back to his father and shook his head.

"Oh."

James read the disappointment in John's eyes and quickly stated his business. "I just came to say I'll go with you. Well, to college."

John's face lit up, breaking into the famous West grin. He nodded eagerly. "Good."

"That's all I came to say." James headed back to the door. He didn't get far.

John blocked his way and gripped James by his shoulders, just like Father Thomas had. "I missed you, son."

James nodded and blinked back unwelcome moisture in his eyes. "When do you want to leave?"

"Tomorrow. The train leaves at ten."

"I'll be here," James promised, then exited quickly. He stood for a moment in the hall, listening to his father shuffle around the room, hoping he'd made the right decision.

* * *

James stood on the railroad platform facing Jabin and Father Thomas. His own father stood to the side a few feet away waiting for him to say his good-byes. Father Thomas held out his hand. James shook it and the Father smiled at him.

"Study hard and study well. Make each book your teacher and don't forget to be critical of every professor."

James smiled slightly, remembering the intensity of his lessons at the priest's school. Father Thomas was a believer in critical thinking, telling his students to never assume everything was as it seemed. Dig deeper, analyze, and discover the truth. Don't take anything at face value.

James nodded to the priest. "I will."

Jabin stuck out his own large hand. "You know my advice. Watch yourself, but be wise about when to engage."

James nodded to the man who had taken him in. Jabin had harped on this theme for four years and even though James hadn't seen exactly eye to eye about the issue, he admited the wisdom in it. He should probably step back and determine if he could win a fight before he jumped in with both feet.

The train whistled. "All aboard!" called the station master.

As James glanced at his father, then back at the two men who had been his guardians, sudden guilt flooded him. "I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused you," he blurted out.

Jabin and Father Thomas shared a smile. "You weren't trouble," Father Thomas replied. "Just a challenge I gladly took on."

Jabin reached out to squeeze James' shoulder. "You just have so much passion and fire. Put it to good use, James. Don't forget what you've learned here."

"I won't," James assured.

"James?"

James turned to see his father gesturing at the train. He nodded once more to his two former guardians and followed his father on board the train. They slid into a seat, James by the window. His father smiled encouragingly at him, but James turned away to stare out the window.

As the train pulled away from the station and the two men who'd been everything to him disappeared as they waved, he felt so much regret. He could have been better for them. They'd been so patient and kind and willing to help him. There had been good times, of course, but he should have been even more attentive.

"I won't let you down,"' he whispered.

A small figure appeared in the brush next to the tracks, waving furiously. James waved as soon as he saw her, but he wasn't sure Maria saw him. She'd come by Jabin's this morning and they'd shared a final kiss. _I'll never see her again_.

"I promise I'm going to do everything I can to give you a good life."

James turned to his father.

"I'll make it up to you, son."

James acknowledged with a nod, but gazed back at the scenery passing by the window. He wasn't sure there was anything his father needed to make up for after all.


	4. 1858: Artemus

1858

"In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion." Artemus raised his right hand with a flourish then extended it to the younger man a few feet away. "For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee, but in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruised and love my cousin."

George, in guise of Claudio, took Artemus' hand firmly, grinning from ear to ear. "I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double-dealer; which, out of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look  
exceedingly narrowly to thee."

Artemus waved off the teasing. "Come, come, we are friends: let's have a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts and our wives' heels."

"We'll have dancing afterward," a middle aged man with a stuck on beard insisted.

"First, of my word!" Artemus declared. "Therefore play, music." He danced a couple steps over to a stately fellow with his arms behind his back. "Prince, thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife:  
there is no staff more reverend than one tipped with horn."

Suddenly, a boy nearly twenty years rushed onstage. "My lord, your brother John is ta'en in flight, and brought with armed men back to Messina!"

Artemus placed a hand on the prince's arm. "Think not on him till to-morrow: I'll devise thee brave punishments for him. Strike up, pipers!"

Music floated from offstage and Artemus grabbed Millie and began twirling her around the stage. The others joined in as applause filled the air. Shadow covered them as the curtain fell. Artemus let Millie go, bowing to her in jest. She laughed and shoved him playfully.

"Well done!" Artemus exclaimed.

George pointed at the rising curtain. "We still have one more scene."

Aretmus took hands with his fellow players and lined up, bowing to the audience who clapped vigorously. Then the principals took their own bows, including Aretmus as Benedick and Millie as Beatrice, the sworn revilers of marriage now united as called for in Shakespeare's _Much Ado About Nothing_. A couple more bows and the curtain closed for the night.

Artemus grinned, shaking hands with the players and laughing and chatting as he walked back to his dressing room. Mille grasped his hand before he entered. "Dear Artie," she sighed. She kissed his cheek. Artemus ran a hand through his hair. "Say, Millie..."

"Millie!" George ran down the narrow hallway, past prop men and crew taking down and setting up for the next night. He stopped in front of Artemus' door and grabbed Millie by the elbow. "Hurry up! It's not too late for dinner." Millie smiled at Artemus and let George pull her away.

Artemus lowered his gaze, then pushed open the dressing room door. He slunk over to a seat in front of a mirror and pulled off his mustache.

William, already present and changing out of his princely costume, looked at his friend curiously. "Tonight was the best night of all," he said. "Why the dumps?"

Artemus reached out for a cream to remove the heavy stage make up and sighed. "Millie."

William laughed. "She's taken, then."

"George."

"George?" William questioned. "At her age, I thought it'd be Tad."

Aretmus guffawed at the insinuation that Millie would go for their messenger, a nineteen year old dreamer whose ego far outstripped his talent.

"Well, she is young, Aretmus," William defended.

"Age doesn't matter," Artemus argued. Millie was far too sophisticated and vibrant for a wet behind the ears neophyte.

William laughed again. "You're two years from thirty. You haven't got a chance, my friend, not with her."

Artemus removed his wig and flung it at William who caught it deftly. "And where's your woman?"

"I intend to find one and sweep her off her feet tonight," William returned good-naturedly. He tossed the wig back to Artemus, then proceeded to remove his own makeup.

Artemus stared at himself in the mirror for a moment, then rubbed the cream in vigorously. Before he'd lived with Aunt Maude, he'd been raised in the life of players on the stage. He'd watched the bonds that formed and the inevitable relationships. Some crumbled, some endured. His own parents had met in the theater, but as yet he'd taken up with few women and only one seriously. The lady in question was seen on stage by a former fiancé who renewed their relationship and whisked her away within a week.

Artemus was pulled out of his contemplations by a knock at the door. He glanced at William, then called out. "Come in." He looked in the mirror at their director entering along with their financier.

"Well done, Artemus, well done!" the director, Walter, gushed.

"Thanks," Artemus replied, smiling and turning in his chair.

"Three more nights, all of them full houses!" the financier, Edgar, chimed in.

"It's one of the bard's best," Artemus answered. He lifted a cloth to his face to wipe off the cream.

"We want you to stay on," the director continued. "I personally guarantee you a role in our next production."

Artemus raised his eyebrows. "Yes. Yes, I accept, of course!"

The director beamed and shook hands with his new star. "With a natural like you, we have to take advantage. Now, go home, get some rest. The morrow cometh soon!"

Aretmus nodded and watched the men leave. William tilted his head to him. "Don't you know all Chicago wants you? Take my advice. Enjoy the many women at your fingertips and leave the Millies of this world to the Georges."

"Maybe I want a Millie," Artemus countered.

"Well, to each his own," William shrugged and turned back to his own mirror.

Atremus considered William's counsel as he finished cleaning his face, then stared at himself again. Almost thirty. He ran a hand over his forehead. Were those deeper wrinkle lines?

* * *

Artemus passed into the Chicago streets from the back door of the theater, but he was still met with a gaggle of admirers. He nodded and shook hands and said thank you a dozen times. He almost asked a brunette beauty to stroll with him, but felt for once he'd like to be alone after a show. He walked out into the city busy even at night. As he strode down the street purposefully, he gave himself a pep talk.

"Artemus, they love you. You're on top of the world." Five years and he'd made his mark in Chicago theater. He'd started humbly with a rowdy crowd, but now the most refined theater in the city had just offered him a continuing engagement. Aunt Maude would beam over the news. She'd come to see him multiple times and gushed to all her friends, many who found their way west to see him perform. He was different, she insisted, not like the squalling players so common these days. His was true art.

Artemus had to give it to Aunt Maude. She'd been a solid supporter even when he chose a direction she didn't quite like. He smiled to himself as he thought of her. He should get back some time to see her again. Maybe after the next production. Correspondence just wasn't the same.

Artemus slowed as he approached Snyder's Ale House. He'd frequented the place during the last couple years, sometimes with friends, sometimes without. He paced tentatively inside, greeting regulars here and there, but relieved to see no one of close relationship. He approached the counter and leaned against it, nodding at the barkeep.

"Good performance?" Abe inquired, already uncorking a bottle to pour Artemus a drink.

Artemus nodded and took the glass Abe passed him. He ran a finger around the rim, then gulped.

Abe cocked his head. "Something wrong tonight?"

Aretmus eyed the barkeep. "Abe, you ever wonder what you want out of life?"

Abe chuckled. "No. I have this place."

"That's all you want?"

Abe nodded. "I wanted my own place and I've got it. But I've seen this before."

"Seen what?"

"People coming in here, medicating their thoughts with drink, not sure where they are and what they want to do."

"Hm," Atremus intoned, weighing the glass in his hand.

Abe shook his head. "What's got into you? This isn't like you."

"Just thinking,"Artemus said.

Abe held out the bottle and Artemus let him pour a second round into his glass. "I suppose it happens to the best of us. But you? The road of despair isn't for you."

Artemus smiled softly. "It isn't?"

Abe nodded. "You know what I hear these days? Let's go see that Artemus Gordon. Does Artemus Gordon come here? They say he does. When does he come in?"

Artemus raised his eyebrows. He'd been unaware people asked after him. "What do you say?"

Abe looked affronted. "I say I don't give out information on good patrons."

Aretmus raised his glass in thanks.

"You've got the heart of this city. What more do you want?"

Artemus took a sip from his glass. _What more_ did _he want?_

"Well, answer the question.

Aretmus grinned. "You don't let a man think long, do you?"

"What is there to think about? I already told you what you've got."

Artemus sipped again as he gazed on the insistent barkeep. He'd already drawn on the man for one of his roles, though he never would have confessed so. He didn't want to embarrass the man who had become a friendly acquaintance.

Artemus set his glass down. "I'm not sure. There's something missing."

Abe shook his head. "You need a good sleep. Let this thing pass you by so you can come back here like you always do."

Artemus couldn't help but smirk at the man's certainty. He glanced at himself in the mirror behind Abe's back. He was dressed in a stylish suit, he was handsome, he had talent, and could share it with the world. What else was there?

"You think I was born yesterday? I ain't no lily liver!" Artemus turned as an overbearing voice filled the bar.

Abe cussed. "I told him to stay out."

Artemus ran an eye over the two men that had just entered. "Which one?"

"One on the right," Abe grumbled.

The one on the right was middle aged and clothed in a suit fashionable five years ago. He was shouting at another man, short and humble of means by the looks of him. The short man answered. "I have said nothing to demean you, sir."

"The heck you didn't! You implied it..." The man rambled on.

Aretmus turned back to Abe. "Who's he?"

Abe's brow creased. "New. Been coming in the last two weeks harassing patrons. I told him to mind his own, but he insists on getting out of temper."

There was a sudden crash. Aretmus jerked around and pushed off the bar. The man had grabbed a chair and was shaking it like a weapon. "Say that again!"

The short man looked around nervously and swallowed. "Please leave, sir. I do not wish to speak to you any longer."

"You're gonna!" The man jabbed with the chair and the shorter one dodged out of the way.

Abe rushed around the end of the bar. "You! Get out now!"

The harasser dropped the chair, but only to punch Abe in the face. Abe reeled back to the floor. "No one tells me what to do!"

He turned back to the shorter man, but an even louder voice joined the fray. "My father always said cowards never want a fair fight!"

The whole room turned its attention to Artemus at the bar, standing tall, one hand behind his back. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'You are a coward, sir.'" Abe grinned at Aretmus' sudden change of accent. He sounded as much a Southern dandy as Abe had ever heard. With his suit and posture, he looked like one, too.

The man stalked towards Artemus. "I'll show you a coward!"

Artemus whipped his hand from behind his back and pointed a pistol at the man. The man halted, fear overcoming the anger on his face. Artemus didn't miss a beat. "I haven't dueled in some time, but I believe I am up to the challenge."

"D...dueled?" the man stammered.

"Honor, sir. You impugn the honor of this establishment with your display. I shall issue a challenge and see if you can do better than the two men buried before you."

"Uh, wait."

"Barkeep! Supply this man a pistol."

"No!"

"Will you not prove your bravery?"

"Well, I didn't mean anything."

"Stand to, sir, or leave this establishment and do not return."

"I, uh, well, I..." the man continued to stammer as he backed up to the door, then turned tail and ran.

Cheers and clapping rang out from the regulars, some already laughing and letting those who didn't know the actor in on the joke. Abe stood and clapped Artemus on the back. Artemus handed him the pistol. "I hope you don't mind I borrowed it."

Abe laughed as he paced back behind the bar and set the pistol under it again. "All things considered, no." He rubbed his reddening jaw. "What would you have done if he accepted?"

"Him?" Artemus laughed and downed the rest of his drink. "I've studied people too much. He wouldn't have."

"Excuse me."

Artemus turned to see the shorter man holding out his hand.

"I wanted to thank you."

Aretmus nodded and shook the man's hand.

"Can I join you?"

Aretmus nodded again. Abe handed the man a drink. "I'm paying for that one." He turned to pour a bit of water on a rag and cool his wounded jaw.

The man sipped and laughed timidly. "They say you're an actor."

"Yes," Artemus confirmed.

"You're good, too, they say. Can make anyone believe almost anything."

Artemus smiled at the description. He hoped so.

"I'm Lieutenant Charles Weeks."

"Ah. Army?"

"Yes. You'd think I would have had the courage to do what you did. I've never been good at confrontation."

"That _is_ a bit strange for an army man," Artemus agreed.

"Have you ever considered the army?"

"Me?" Artemus snickered, imagining himself parading around in a uniform with a rifle over his shoulder.

"We can use a skill like yours to get...information."

Artemus downed the rest of his drink, eying the lieutenant over his glass. He lowered it. "Threatening to duel them?"

"No." Charles leaned in. "Spying."

Artemus stared into Charles' serious eyes, then burst out laughing. Eyes turned to them.

Charles looked panicked. "Shhhhh."

Artemus shook his head. "I'm not who you're looking for." Charles began to protest, but Artemus patted him on the back. "I'm an actor. That's all I want to be."

"But..."

Artemus stepped back as he threw a couple coins on the bar. "Good night, lieutenant. I hope you find who you're looking for somewhere else."

* * *

Artemus climbed the steps to his landlady's home, slipped inside, then walked upstairs. He put his ear to a door. George didn't seem to be home. He opened the door and popped his head in. His roommate was nowhere to be seen. He entered, lit the gas lamp, then changed into his nightclothes. He finally seated himself at his desk, his gaze flitting over scattered chemical equipment and an unfinished article. How many journals were demanding articles? He'd made waves in theater _and_ scientific discovery. And yet...

Artemus leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. What was it Abe had said? What more do you want? Artemus stared at the silent street below his window. He had fame. He had money. He had intellectual pursuits and acclaim. Why wasn't that enough? And if it wasn't enough, what was?

Artemus played the event in the ale house over in his mind, the claim to dueling prowess, the fear in his antagonist's eyes, the gratefulness of the lieutenant. It was like being on stage only even better because it was _real_. Truth be told, he'd never felt so exhilarated and useful as he had right then.

A sudden flurry of giggles and a shush sounded behind him as his door opened. He turned to see George and Millie stumbling in. "Do you _want_ Mrs. Adams to throw you out?"

"I don't care!" George exclaimed. "Guess what, Artie? Guess!"

"What?" Artemus inquired as he ran his eye over Millie all gussied up and staring adoringly at George.

"We're getting married!" George pulled Millie into him and planted a wet kiss on her lips. Millie giggled again.

"After one night out?" Artemus questioned incredulously.

"We've been seeing each other secretly," Millie's lilting voice explained.

"You know Walter." George stood tall and began lecturing. "In this theater, I will have no hanky panky. We are not other theaters. This is work and there will be no interference."

Artemus smiled in spite of his disappointment that another woman had avoided his grasp. George's impression was accurate.

"Celebrate with us!" Millie asked.

"Ah, he's always playing with his experiments," George complained. "No time for much else."

"How many times have I gone with you to..." Artemus' protest dissolved when Mrs. Adams' shrill voice filled the hallway.

"George Addicott! You know women are not allowed inside at this hour."

" _You're_ here," George parried.

"That's not what I mean. Get her out of here this instant."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Adams," Millie apologized in her sweet tones. "We're so happy. We're getting married."

Mrs. Adams gasped. "Tonight?"

"Well, no," Millie admitted. "We haven't set a date."

"Then set it outside," Mrs. Adams encouraged, though her tone had softened. "George, be a good boy and say good-bye downstairs."

"Yes, ma'am."

Artemus watched the couple retreat and Mrs. Adams' suddenly transformed, her hands clasped to her chest. "Artemus, isn't it wonderful? A wedding. There hasn't been a wedding under this roof in years."

Artemus turned in his seat. "Yes. It's wonderful." _What more do I want?_ Marriage certainly wasn't on the cards.

Mrs. Adams turned to leave, then stopped and dug into her skirt pocket. "Oh! I almost forgot. This came for you today." She crossed the room and handed Artemus an envelope, then left, muttering about dresses and cake.

Artemus didn't recognize the handwriting, but the return address was not far from Great Aunt Maude's home. He picked up a letter opener and slit the envelope, pulling out a sheet of paper with a brief paragraph.

 _Dear Artemus Gordon,_

 _Your great aunt will not be pleased with me writing to you, but duty required my action. Maude fell ill three weeks ago. I am sorry to tell you I believe you must come now before heaven calls her home. She talks of little but you these days. It would not be right to let her leave this world without seeing you again. Forgive my brevity and come soon._

 _Yours,_

 _Ida Lintern_

The letter fell to Artemus' lap. He stared at it dumbly for a few seconds, then leaped to his feet, grabbing his valise and stuffing it full as fast as able.

* * *

Artemus took the steps up to the mansion two at a time. He'd spent the last two days on trains, mostly gazing out the window at the passing scenery, still shocked by the news of Aunt Maude's illness. Why hadn't _she_ written? She should have. She had to know he'd come to her instantly. But he knew the answer. She wouldn't want to bother him and drag him away from his "success." He felt both love and annoyance for her devotion. She _should_ have written.

"Mr. Gordon," a maid greeted as soon as he opened the door.

"Where is she? How is she?" he questioned, dropping his valise, already heading to the stairs.

"She's down here, sir, in the solarium."

Artemus turned abruptly. The solarium? "She's better, then."

"No, sir," the maid spoke softly. "The doctor's just been here. He said there's not much hope." Artemus marched down a side hall as the maid called after him. "She said she wanted privacy, sir." Artemus ignored her. She'd want to see him.

Artemus paused when he reached the door to the solarium. He took a breath, then entered with all the gusto he could muster. "Aunt Maude?" When no one replied, he walked passed a row of pink roses, her favorite, and turned a corner. "Aunt Maude!" He rushed to the side of the woman he loved so much, sitting in a wicker rocker, covered in a blanket.

Maude's eyes had been closed, but she opened them now in amazement. "Artemus!"

Atremus gripped her hands, colder than he recalled, and knelt in front of her. "I'm here."

Maude chuckled, but even so, Artemus perceived how drawn she looked and when she smiled, he noticed her left cheek was motionless. "Who told you?" she drawled out, her speech slower than he remembered.

"It doesn't matter," Artemus returned. "I came as soon as I heard."

Maude closed her eyes again and drew in a long breath. "I won't lie. It's good to see you." She opened her eyes. "But you would have been better staying away."

Artemus squeezed her hands. "How can you tell me that?"

Maude smiled grimly. "Death isn't pretty."

Artemus' throat closed. On the way, he'd tried to convince himself that Ida had been exaggerating.

"I'm going to die. I know it. I want to."

Artemus' eyes widened in disbelief.

"Albert's waiting for me."

Artemus coughed to clear his throat. "Have David and Sybil come? Julian?"

Maude's eyes grew distant as she gazed out the clear glass walls of the room. "David and Sybil were here last summer. Julian is in Europe. I didn't write them."

"I'll let them know." Someone had to tell her children.

"No," Maude spoke vehemently, pushing herself up in the rocker. "Let them remember me as I was. At the ocean. The warm breeze. The grandchildren clinging to my ankles." She grew still, leaning back in the rocker, her voice fading as she spoke.

"Aunt Maude..."

Maude shook her head, looking back at her great nephew. "Artemus, let me die on my own terms."

Artemus closed his eyes, willing back swelling tears. "I will."

"I want you to promise me something."

Atremus sucked in a breath and opened his eyes. "Yes?"

"Don't grieve too much."

Atremus opened his mouth, but Maude kept on speaking.

"I don't want people's lives to end when mine does. Don't think you have to mourn and wear black to honor me. I want you to _live_. That's honor enough."

Artemus couldn't help but smile. This was his great aunt for certain, illness or no.

"Promise me."

"I promise."

"Good." Aunt Maude patted his hand. "Now, you tell me all the Chicago news."

Artemus stood up, pulling a wicker chair next to his great aunt. He rambled on for a little while, sharing all he knew, but leaving out his uncertainty. He didn't want her thinking he longed for more than he had. Let her believe he lived content.

"Artemus?" Maude interrupted another theater story.

"Yes?"

"I've always loved you as my own."

Artemus met her watery eyes. "I know that."

"I thought I should say it. And Artemus?"

"Uh huh."

"I'm going to haunt you, you know. I'm going to make sure you don't forget all my good advice."

Artemus stared, then guffawed. Maude joined him, laughing more than she had in a month.

* * *

Artemus stood in the parlor full of fragrant bouquets and wreaths and sprays, the combination a bit overpowering. Maude had certainly been loved. People had turned out in droves, but now they were gone and he had been left suddenly alone. David, Sybil, and their children were somewhere in the house, searching through Maude's papers for her will. Artemus had excused himself. He didn't want to see his great aunt reduced to an emotionless statement of material distribution.

He wandered out of the parlor, into the entryway and out the front door, sitting down on the first step, watching people bustle here and there in the street. Life went on, so many unaware the earth had dimmed at the loss of a beautiful soul. He heard a crinkle in his pocket. He shifted and reached in, withdrawing the letter that had come just this morning.

Artemus unfolded it, reading again the plea that he return to Chicago on the first train. He'd thought he'd be out a job. He'd left with only a quick word to Mrs. Adams. He figured the show had to go on and they'd find someone else to take his place. Walter had written a trite, yet cordial letter, expressing disappointment he hadn't been informed of the emergency. Still, they wanted him back.

Artemus folded the letter and tapped it against his lips as he thought. Great Aunt Maude had supported him every step of the way. She'd encouraged his desires, come to see his plays, commented on his journal articles. And yet, he'd always sensed something else behind her words, a secret thought that he could be even more if he decided to.

Artemus jammed the letter back into his pocket. Maybe he'd imagined it. After all, she'd never said anything.

"Artemus?"

Artemus glanced behind him to see Sybil in the doorway. He made to stand, but she spoke again.

"Please, don't get up." She lowered herself next to him on the step. "You miss her."

Artemus nodded. "Certainly."

"She was larger than life," Sybil said quietly. "I wish I had seen her in her youth."

Artemus chuckled softly. "She would have been a sight to behold."

Sybil reached out a gentle hand and laid it on his arm. "She's given you the house."

Artemus turned his head to her in disbelief.

"It's the only home you have, she said."

"I...You should have it...or David, Julian."

Sybil shook her head. "We've done well for ourselves. Neither David or I need it. I'm certain Julian wouldn't cross the ocean for it. But it doesn't matter. The house is yours whether we care or not."

Artemus craned his neck back to look up at the imposing structure. "What will I do with it?"

Sybil laughed. "Whatever you want. Though, she did say she didn't think you'd stay in it often. I think she expects your soul to wander like hers."

Artemus unconsciously rubbed at his pocket.

"Will you go back to Chicago?"

"I don't know."

Sybil leaned over and kissed his cheek. "Wherever you go, whatever you decide, let us know."

"I will."

Sybil rose and went back into the house.

Artemus shook his head. "The house, Great Aunt Maude?" What would he do with a house? And what would he do with his life? He'd loved the stage, he still did, but Chicago, and George and Millie, and everything suddenly felt pale and dreary. So he could play a part. He could make people laugh and cry for a time. He could tinker with experiments, make a discovery now and then. Perhaps he'd done some good, touched lives for a brief moment. Still, there was something else out there just beyond his grasp.

A voice from a bar in Chicago spoke in his ear: _Spying._

Artemus snorted. No. Such an idea was ludicrous, but he tapped his foot thoughtfully on the second step. Wouldn't Great Aunt Maude have loved that idea! Her Atremus a covert government man.

Artemus stood and turned to stare at the house. "Great Aunt Maude, if you're listening, start haunting me now." Maybe a woman who loved him better than he did himself could see more from her current vantage point and whisper in his ear where in the world his life was headed.


End file.
